


The Darkness Within

by wintersdelirium



Series: Shifting Balance [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: Knights of the Old Republic (Video Games)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Not Canon Compliant, Revan is a sarcastic asshole because honestly HK had to get it from somewhere, That's Not How The Force Works, This is seriously dumb, loosely based on a mod but not really, revan is human but only half, things don't exactly go as planned
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-20
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:35:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26004280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wintersdelirium/pseuds/wintersdelirium
Summary: It was an offer she couldn't refuse - a full pardon in exchange for lending her expertise to the Republic war effort.The mission seemed simple enough, act as a translator and an adviser for a relief mission headed by the Jedi, but nothing is ever simple where the Force is concerned.After a harrowing escape from the Endar Spire and a crash-landing that defied the odds, nefarious smuggler Miran Sol wakes on the Sith occupied world of Taris with no memory, a sudden connection to the Force, and finds herself in the middle of a mess far larger than a botched mission.AU in which the Jedi's plan doesn't go as expected, a single head injury messes everything up, and Bastila's forced to change the story on the fly because Carth is too perceptive for his own good and Miran isn't buying the smuggler bit - loosely based on a mod where the PC is a Jedi from the start
Relationships: Carth Onasi/Female Revan
Series: Shifting Balance [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2012626
Comments: 6
Kudos: 21





	1. A Trap Sprung

**Author's Note:**

> This is like the tenth attempt in the past five years to actually solidify an idea because it keeps changing every time I play the game even though I go the same route every single time because I'm weak. Seriously, I think I've written the whole escapade on Taris so many times I practically have the in-game dialogue memorized at this point. 
> 
> This was initially inspired by Bastila's test on Dantooine and grew into a "what if" scenario that's taken on a life of it's own. While it does follow the plot of the game, many liberties were taken as workarounds for game mechanics, and certain events have been altered or tweaked to better fit the circumstances. 
> 
> Certain events have definitely been tweaked or completely altered to adhere to obvious changes.

**PART 1 - TARIS**

**CHAPTER 1 |** A TRAP SRUNG

She knew the attack would come.

Throughout her shift, the unsettling feeling of impending disaster followed her like a shadow. It was more than a twist in the gut, an incessant nagging in the back of her mind that grew more demanding as the minutes trickled past. As duty commanded, she informed one of the Jedi accompanying the Republic ship, which was stuffed to the thrusters with relief supplies and military equipment, of her hunch but it was of little use. The Jedi claimed they would remain vigilant throughout the remainder of their journey, but Miran knew they said so only to placate her and end her relentless pestering. The Jedi did not sense the danger ahead and, in their arrogance, believed their connection to the mystical Force preceded the honed, and rarely inaccurate, instincts of a smuggler.

Miran led a life of danger. She survived more fights than most of the Jedi and Republic soldiers aboard the  _ Endar Spire _ combined and escape more than her fair share of deadly space battles during the height of the Mandalorian War. She piloted ships through the more treacherous regions of space and lived to tell the tale. One did not survive on the Outer Rim in her line of work for long if they did not learn to heed the signs of coming danger - and a relief mission on a Sith occupied planet reeked of it.

The Jedi hired her as an adviser and linguistic aid, her extensive knowledge of alien languages and the dangers of the Outer Rim a necessary asset, yet the Jedi, and many of the Republic officers, met her advice with skepticism. They took her words with a grain of salt, preferring to adopt a wait-and-see approach rather than observe the insight of a veteran combatant, seasoned pilot, and Outer Rim native. By the time they learned their lesson, it would be too late.

And so, in silence, she prepared for the coming battle.

When the  _ Endar Spire _ emerged from hyperspace, it did so in the center of a massive Sith blockade surrounding the city-planet of Taris. Within seconds the Sith overran their position, the  _ Spire’s  _ shields disengaged, and the communications array disabled. The lockdown sequence began with the shrill wail of sirens, and, before long, the sound of battle erupted throughout the ship.

Miran scrambled to gather the equipment she scrounged from the stores during her shift: a utility belt equipped with a stealth field generator and stocked with an array of grenades, a pair of standard-issue blaster pistols, and an equipment pack jammed full of medkits, stimulants, and security spikes. She stowed her datapad, which contained a schematic of the ship’s layout, a myriad of access and override codes lifted from the central computer during her off-hours, and a copy of the crew’s manifest, in the side pocket of her armored flight jacket. She slipped the blasters into the holsters at her thighs.

The ship shuddered and groaned. Momentarily, the floor disappeared beneath her feet as the artificial gravity module studdered. It resumed seconds later, the weightlessness of space disappearing as quickly as it arrived, and she crashed into the side of her bunk, arms flailing in a vain attempt to catch her balance.

Cursing, she staggered to her feet and hurried towards the door. Escaping a ship under heavy fire was no easy feat, but a failing gravity generator spelled trouble. Restricted movement in a firefight meant certain death and hindered the ability to navigate the ship with ease. If the module, stars forbid, failed, she would not reach the escape pods before the Sith reduced the ship to spare parts.

Her fingers flew over the access panel, the lockdown override memorized hours before, and with a strained hiss, the door slid open. The corridor beyond was empty, save for a lone utility droid struggling to repair the extensive damage to the interior along the left wall. The battle hadn’t yet reached her quarters, but the clash of vibroblades and discharge of blasters behind the next door indicated it was not far off.

She took a moment to steady her resolve for the coming battle and ran a last-minute inventory check. The grenades remained clipped to her belt, undisturbed by her crash-landing moments before. Both blasters were prepped and ready for action, their safeties switched off and set to kill. Just as she reached for the stealth generator, the door at the end of the hall slid open.

Miran did not hesitate. She seized a blaster from its holster and fired. The bolt sailed through the open door, eliciting a startled curse, and slammed into the far wall.

“Blast it, woman! Look before you shoot!”

A young Republic soldier with close-cut blond hair stepped into the hall, his face twisted with irritation. The insignia pinned to the front of his uniform, a glaring ensemble of vibrant orange and faded black marred with carbon scoring, indicated he held the rank of Ensign; a fresh recruit, likely just out of training. His name came to her a moment later: Trask Ulgo, the elusive roommate she’d only seen evidence of on the crew manifest.

“I came to get you since the attack triggered the lockdown, but I see that wasn’t necessary,” he said as he stepped further into the hall. His eyes narrowed with suspicion. “How did you get the override codes?”

Miran shrugged and adjusted her grip on her blaster. “The computer, where else?”

He looked as if he wanted to say more, a brief flicker of dubious disgust flashing across his features, but thought better of it. Instead, he motioned towards the adjacent hall, riddled with signs of battle. Sith and Republic soldiers alike littered the ruined floor, littered with carbon scoring and the lingering remains of detonated grenades. Blood, thrown from wild swings of a virboblade, decorated the wall. The overhead lights flickered, then dimmed as the dim emergency lights took over.

“I guess you’re aware the Sith boarded,” Trask said, stating the obvious. “We have to get to the bridge and help Bastila.”

Bastila was, if she remembered correctly, the Jedi in charge of the botched mission ad the woman who hired her. Though Miran encountered many of the Jedi throughout their journey to Taris, the renowned Bastila Shan was not among them. She was, as her shiftmates claimed, most often found meditating in her quarters, and occasionally emerged to monitor their progress during the day cycle.

“No,” Miran said, pushing past him. She peered into the hall beyond to find it empty. “This ship was lost the moment we left hyperspace, and if Bastila’s as smart as the Jedi are rumored to be, she knows that. She’s on her way to the escape pods if she’s not already off the ship.”

“How would you know that?”

She threw him a stale look over her shoulder as she knelt beside the body of a fallen Sith. “I don’t, but only an idiot would think they have a chance of surviving on this ship. The only thing you’re doing by continuing to defend it is wasting precious time.”

“You sure know a lot about space battles for a raw recruit.”

“This isn’t my first rodeo, rookie,” she said. She removed a pair of extra grenades from the corpse, then crept to the next corner, finding the hall beyond it barren as well. “I wasn’t brought in fresh off a farm, you know. I know a thing or two because I’ve seen a thing or two.

Trask, much to her relief, stowed his remaining questions in favor of following her towards the bridge. Though the assumption that Bastila remained on the ship was one born of ignorance in the face of lacking experience, it was likely the only plausible path to the escape pods, assuming the other soldiers shared Trask’s insistence on defending their Jedi commander. The way was clear, if one ignored the bodies and wrecked utility droids, and the doors, though closed, were locked rather than sealed.

The first true indication of how dire the situation was came in the form of a fierce battle in the hall just outside of the bridge. A young woman wrapped in the traditional and unassuming robes of the Jedi Order struggled to hold her ground against another Jedi swathed in darkened battle armor. Trask stopped her at the door, his warning lost beneath the crackling of their blades as they pushed against each other.

Miran had never witnessed a battle between Jedi, but it did not live up to the grandiose tales she heard from washed-out soldiers during her travels. It wasn’t a deadly dance between two masters of the blade, but the clumsy desperation of two individuals pushed to their limits in a futile struggle to gain the advantage. The Jedi didn’t sling the Force around, but rather blocked and swung when an opening presented itself, her opponent following her lead, albeit with far more tenacity and strength.

Patience and persistence prove superior and, with a well-angled strike, the Jedi’s brilliant blue blade tore through his neck, deep into his shoulder, and the Sith fell motionless before her.

The wall behind her exploded in a burst of fire and a shower of sparks. The blast shook the ship to its core, the floor panels trembling as a groan resounded through the hall. When the smoke from the initial blast cleared, the Jedi lay beside the Sith, her skin raw and blistered.

Her lightsaber, miraculously undamaged, lay ar Miran’s feet.

Without thinking, she knelt to retrieve it. It was heavier than she expected, the metal hilt warm in her hands. She turned it over, examining the design, and noticed the small red button near the top. Unable to sate her growing curiosity (she wasn’t sure what possessed her to bother with a weapon only a Jedi could use), she pressed it with her thumb.

The blade flared to light, casting a soft blue glow over the darkened halls, and she found that, unlike a virboblade, the beam was weightless. The hilt vibrated in her hand, a low droning hum resonating from the beam. When she turned it, something akin to a gyroscopic stabilizer, shifted inside. 

“It wouldn’t bother with that,” Trask said, peering at the weapon with uncertainty. “You’ll just cut your arm off if you try to fight with it, so I’ve heard.”

“Better with us than risking one fo the Sith running us through with it,” she replied, thumbing the activation switch. The blade disappeared with a high-pitched  _ whoosh _ and, once certain it wouldn’t reactivate, she clipped it to her belt. “If nothing else, it might be useful if we come across a sealed door or a wrecked hall.”

From there, they proceeded toward the bridge with little resistance. A few scattered Sith remained, but they were neither skilled nor intelligent; basic units meant to cause problems in large quantities. She’d rumbled with rookie bounty hunters and assassins ho posed more danger. For Task, who hadn’t seen much in the way of combat, they provided some challenge, but he handled himself well enough in spite of it.

The bridge posed little threat. Only two Sith, armed with virboblades, remained among the scattered casualties. Miran dispatched them with haste, firing both blasters the moment she spotted their mirror-like armor as the door, smoking and wheezing with effort, slid open. From her right, Trask threw her a withering glare.

“Will you look before you shoot? You could’ve shot one of our men,” he chided.

“A bit of advice from someone who grew up with a blaster in her hand: shoot first, otherwise you might not live long enough to ask questions,” she said. “But see? No Bastila. No Jedi. They must have made for the escape pods.”

She stepped into the bridge and took a moment to assess the damage. All of the consoles were fried beyond repair, their circuits melted and sparking. It looked as if a power surge, like the one responsible for the stutter of the gravity module, rendered them obsolete. Without a working console, she had no means to check the status of the escape pods or observe the potential obstacles along the way.

They had no choice but to make a break for it and hope for the best.

Trask fell in behind her as she wove through the wreckage and made her way to the door leading to the starboard section of the  _ Spire _ , and, hopefully, their escape. If they arrived to discover the all the escape pods jettisoned…

She shoved the thought aside and moved forward. The Sith hadn’t destroyed the ship despite having ample time and firepower to do so. Someone they were reluctant to kill remained on board ad until they were certain their target departed, they would not risk blowing up the ship. She hoped.

Not two doors past the bridge, Miran faltered. An uneasy feeling, a sickening twist in her gut similar to the one she experienced before the attack, settled over her. Something, though she didn’t know what, was about to happen - something bad.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Trask key the override code into the door directly across from the, but before she had the chance to voice her concern, the door slid open to reveal the source of her unease. Tall, muscular, and garbed in blackened armor, the Sith towered over Trask, his bearded face twisted with fiendish delight.

Everything happened at once. As Trask screamed for her to run to the escape pods while he held him off, a wall of invisible force slammed her into the nearest wall. At first, she thought the impact forced the air from her lungs, but then she became aware of the pressure surrounding her throat, the crushing grip of an invisible hand. She gagged, her hands clawing at her skin in desperation, but it was no use.

Just as her vision began to blur, the pressure faded. Miran slumped against the wall, greedily inhaling precious air between fits of violent coughing. Shaking, one hand massaging her aching throat, she stumbled to her feet and swallowed. She was alone, neither Trask nor the Sith in sight. The door they discovered him behind was closed, the access panel flashing red; magnetically sealed and likely to never open again.

The shrill beep of her comlink brought her attention back to the matter at hand. She was alone, now, on a doomed ship with stars knew how many Sith between her and the escape pods that may or may not have been jettisoned, with someone - Bastila or one of her Jedi, possibly, or another soldier, perhaps - trying to contact her.

“You better be calling me-” she stopped and coughed, her throat aching with the effort of speaking. “Oh, forget it. Make it quick.”

It was a man’s voice that filtered through the speaker. “This is- wait, are you alright?”

“Just choked on my own windpipe courtesy of Dark Jedi, and Trask just tried to play hero like an idiot, but otherwise, I’m fine,” she rasped. She coughed again. “Stars above, just get to the point.”

“You’re the last surviving crew member,” the voice responded. She couldn’t detect much in the way of emotion; the comlink, possibly damaged when she hit the wall, crackled every time he spoke. “Bastlila’s already planet-side. There’s on escape pod left but I can’t wait forever.”

“I’m not wasting any more time,” she said, switching on her stealth generator. “I’m making a rum for it.”

“What?! There’s a dozen sith between you and the escape pod. You’d be better off sneaking-”

“Just make sure that escape pod stays where it is.”

With that, she opened the door to the starboard section and hurried down the hall. She passed one Sith stationed at an intersection, facing the hall she emerged from, then stumbled across two more guarding the door at the end. Whoever she spoke to on the comlink estimated a dozen Sith and only two rooms stood between her and the escape pods. At least nine more blocked her path.

She pressed the comlink and, as soon as she heard the click that signaled an answer, she whispered, “Are you near a computer?”

His reply, muffled by her hand covering the speaker, came through. “Yeah.”

“Good. I’m going to assume you’re a regular soldier and have no idea how to do what I’m about to ask, but bear with me. The last two rooms, if I remember correctly, have a computer console and a power conduit inside,” she replied. Her gaze flickered to the Sith, who remained oblivious to her presence. “There’s two outside I can handle with a grenade but I need you to slice into the system and manually overload both.”

“I ca overload the conduit but the computer-”

“Just do exactly what I tell you to do,” she said, “and don’t ask why I have the administrator’s code.”

It was tedious, as most security work as. Codes needed entering, and she had to explain more than one workaround for complications caused by the lockdown, but the sound of two massive, aptly timed explosions confirmed his success. Though it took longer than she would have liked, the deed was done.

She almost felt bad for the two clueless Sith when the grenade she tossed as the explosions sounded detonated in a brilliant flash of orange light. Plasma grenades packed a punch and burns were a terrible, often slow, way to die.

With both rooms clear and the doors now open, no more obstacles stood between her and the soldier responsible for the convenient assistance. He was older than most of the crew, likely in his late thirties or early forties, with a shock of brown hair and the beginning of beard in need of a trim. Unlike the dozens of other soldiers she encountered, he didn’t wear an identifiable uniform, but a gaudy orange flight jacket and plain pants tucked into military-issued boots.

“I thought you said you’d make a run for it,” he said as she stepped into the docking bay.

“I did. For a ways,” she replied. She stepped past him and stalked towards the last remaining escape pod. “I wasn’t expecting them to cluster together like that. The Sith aren’t exactly the sharest vibroblade in the rack.”

“They wanted Bastila alive,” the soldier said. He never did give his name, now that she thought about it. “Fortunately, she managed to escape before they took up the position.”

“At least something’s going right today,” she muttered. She ducked into the escape pod and peered through the circular viewport at the planet spinning below.

For the third time in the past twenty-four hours, the unease returned. This time, there was little question about the cause. The Sith were about to destroy the ship _. _

She seized the soldier by his sleeve and yanked him into the escape pod. Her right hand scrambled to the controls and, after a moment of frantic search, her fingers found the ejection switch. With a violent jolt, the escape pod shot from its dock.

Not a second later, the  _ Endar Spire _ exploded.

They were too close to the ship. A massive, silent shockwave slammed into the pod. Her head collided with the control panel. Pain blossomed behind her temple. Spots danced across her vision. Something warm, wet, and sticky, trailed down her face.

The last thing she saw before the darkness took hold was the shattered remains of the  _ Endar Spire _ plummeting to the planet below.


	2. Crash Landing

**CHAPTER 2 |** CRASH LANDING

War was as predictable as it was chaotic. Carth knew from the moment the Sith attacked, he’d either die aboard the  _ Endar Spire _ or find himself stranded behind enemy lines. A clean escape and a safe landing was a luxury he wasn’t often afforded.

The moment the escape pod collided with the translucent walkways that created the streets of Taris’s Upper City and skid to a stop, he sprang into action. An orbital blockade and Sith occupation meant he had, at best, a few minutes to get himself and the last surviving crew member away from the wreckage before the Sith patrols arrived to investigate.

Carth was not a small man, but dragging a limp body through an opening barely large enough to fit one person was no easy feat, even if she weight maybe a hundred-some-odd pounds soaking wet. The lack of height and bulk made it easier to pull her through the shattered viewport than most, but it still took more effort than he would have liked. Harder still was throwing her over his shoulder, her weight bearing down on him as he struggled to his feet.

The over of a cloudy night and the blissful lack of streetlights (the escape pod took care of those during its descent) limited the potential witness to only those in the immediate area, their numbers already few and far between. He made for the closest building, one hand on his blaster and his arm wrapped tightly around the woman’s waist. In the darkness, the building resembled every other structure along the walkway; a large, dowing shadow speckled with patches of light and the occasional shifting silhouette near the windows.

A flickering light above the entrance, heavily dimmed by the thick layer of grime accumulated on the casing, provided the only means of sight as his hand fumbled for the access panel. The door slid open with a strained hiss to reveal a small interior hall, and beyond that, the beginnings of a circular corridor. The air reeked of rot and neglect, the dismal condition of the building apparent with a single glance.

Faded wall panels with patches of peeling paint which revealed an older, more decayed layer beneath spanned the inner wall. More flickering lights, these much brighter, lined the water damaged ceiling as it curved out of sight. Large windows covered with crumbling shades and alien language written into the grime made up the outer wall. The stopped before what appeared to be the first of a series of unmarked doors.

The building was not abandoned. Dozens of aliens milled about the dismal halls in listless boredom, some pausing long enough for short conversation before they resumed their aimless ambling. None of them spared him a second glance as they passed, an air of indifference and wary ignorance surrounding them. They were not the type to ask questions.

No more than two septs into the building, which he assumed was an apartment complex of some sort, an older man with greying air, dressed in simple but fraying clothes, stopped him. A cleaning droid well beyond its hay-day hovered at his heel, it’s internal motors chugging with effort. Carth was not well-versed in matters regarding droids, and he could barely understand them half the time, but he knew the knocking and grinding inside its chassis was not a good sign.

Before he could say a word, the older man pointed to the right side of the curving hall. “Third door on the right. Pass code’s 7675. Don’t know who you are and I don’t care; just get her out of sight before the Sith show up.”

With that, he turned on his heels and stalked down the hall, the poor cleaning droid shuddering violently before it hovered after him.

Carth knew better than to look a gifted rancor (or any rancor, for that matter) in the mouth. Time was of the essence; as soon as the Sith discovered the pod empty, they’d send patrols to sweet the surrounding areas for survivors. Following the man’s directions, he approached the unmarked door, covered in faded graffiti, and keyed in the past code. It took several seconds for the gears inside to start and, with a god awful shriek that grated on his ears, the dual panels split apart.

The apartment beyond was less of a home and more of a hostel - a single room with a small kitchenette shoved into one corner, a pair of armchairs and a small table along the wall opposite of two beds protruding from the other. A smaller door on the left, near the entrance, led to a refresher smalled than those most ships sported, the skin, toilet, and shower crammed into a space no larger than a small closet. All around him, the evidence of years of neglect presented itself in the form of faded wall panels, faulty flooring, and cracked countertops. Only one of the four overhead lights functioned. The beds sagged at precarious angles, ready to collapse at a moment’s notice, and the faded, plush linings of the armchairs were riddled with holes.

Not wanting to take the risk of further injury, Carth set the woman in the corner near the refresher, where she would be out of sight of both the door and the massive windows along the back wall, and conducted a quick assessment of her condition. Unconscious, but breathing. She sported several minor, superficial wounds: scrapes and bruises from the rough landing. A larger, more concerning gash spanned her right temple. Rivulets of blood streamed down the side of her face, her pale skin ghostly and slicked with sweat. He discovered a second wound on the back of her head, dried blood matting her unruly mop of blue hair. It didn’t appear nearly as bad, more of a scratch than anything, and his fingers came away clean. She’d have one hell of a knot on her head for a few days - if she survived that long. He’d seen stronger men die of less during the war.

Carth cursed. He hadn’t the time to grab anything more than this blaster with the Sith ambush began. They caught them unawares and unprepared; even the Jedi were powerless to stop their assault. The crew couldn’t do more than hold back the Sith boarding parties until Bastila reached the escape pods - and they barely succeeded in that endeavor. The  _ Spire _ was gone, as was the eternity of her crew, as was the entirety of her crew, and he had no way of knowing if Bastila survived the descent or the landing. 

Now, he was estranged on a Sith occupied world with no credits, no supplies, and a soldier in critical condition and no means to treat her wounds. 

He was beginning to wish he’d refused the assignment.

A soft knock at the door startled him from his thoughts. Drawing his blasters a precaution, and positioning himself between the door and the woman, he palms the open switch and waited. With another ear splitting-shriek, the door split to reveal a young woman with dark hair twisted into a tight bun. She held a bulging equipment pack in her hands, a datapad and the pommel of a lightsaber peaking out from beneath the flap, stretched as far as it could go over the top.

He recognized the bag. The woman had been carrying it when she arrived at the pod bay. It must have slipped off her shoulder at some point during their descent; he’d been too concerned with keeping her from hitting her head again to notice.

“One of the Duros found this in the pod,” the woman said, her Tarisian accent thick. “Give the trail of blood on the floor, you could use the medkits inside.”

“Right. Thanks,” he said, taking the pack. It was heavy, alarmingly so. He heard the clink of credit chits and the tinny clang of grenades as he set it on the floor beside him.

“There’s a clinic two miles to the south un by a man called Zelka Forn,” the woman continued. “It’d be better if you took her there. We have rough problems with the Sith as it is. We don’t need them breaking down our doors looking for a Jedi.”

With that, she turned on her heels ad stalked down the hall.

Carth eyed the lightsaber with scrutiny. He spent enough time around the Jedi during the war, despite the rarity of the occasion, to know a thing or two about them and their weapons; they were as individual as their wielders and he recognized the sleek, but elegant design. It belonged to one of Bastila’s entourage, a young blonde by the name of Armira, who Bastila appointed as the head of the supply detail.

Pushing the thought to the back of his mind, there was no sense dwelling on it and she was not in any condition to explain, he flipped the top off the pack, setting both the datapad and lightsaber aside, and paused. Nearly a dozen medkits, handfuls of stimulants, and more grenades than one person needed were crammed inside. On the bottom sat a large pouch overflowing with credit chits - he recalled hearing some of the crew members complain about losing Pazaak bets and missing credits - that numbered in the hundreds. Underneath that, he found several of the ship’s ration packs, a jar of flower-smelling kolto based cream, and several toiletries.

Odd.

Ignoring the suspicion gnawing at his gut, he tore into one of the medkits and set to work patching her wounds. It took several sterilized wipes to remove the blood from her face and another to get the matted blood out of her hair. He couldn’t do much beyond that. The gash on her temple needed sutures and medkits weren’t equipped with the necessary tools. Designed for quick use in emergencies, commonly in the heat of battle, they contained little more than an injection pack, a couple of bandages, and disinfection wipes. Kolto assisted the recovery process, but it was not a cure-all miracle.

If she didn’t wake in the next couple of days, he’d have to find some way to get her to the clinic.

At least, with the bag recovered, he was no longer out of supplies. The rations and medkits remedied the lack of food and medical necessities and the credits, roughly four hundred in total, were more than enough to cover the cost of more supplies. Between her belt and her pack, there were enough grenades to topple a building.

And he’d bet every credit in that bag she knew she’d need them.

The bag was too well-stocked. He’d give the personal items a pass - he was married, once, and knew better than to question it - but the rations and the lightsaber he couldn’t ignore. During the ambush, he kept an eye on the life-support system to monitor Bastila’s escape, and later the status of the crew. She’d been out of her quarters within seconds of the alarm sounding. She survived the battle unscathed, even after stumbling across a dark Jedi. The escape pod did more damage to her than a platoon of Sith.

The contents of her datapad only furthered his suspicions: security bypass codes, override codes, administrative codes, a mechanic’s copy of the  _ Spire’s _ schematics, and an officer’s copy of the crew manifest. 

Her service record, which he’d only glanced at briefly when she boarded, posed as many questions as it did answers.

Miran Sol, estimated age of thirty-four, human-Twi’lek hybrid (suspected, but not confirmed), who hailed from the Outer Rim world of Deralia. Her file was significantly bare, indicating little beyond her previous occupations as a smuggler, hired-gun, and bounty hunter, a skill set to match, and an extensive list of known languages. It was a set up typical of a mercenary, as they were wont to withhold information, save for the two pages at the bottom which possessed a copy of an arrest warrant and a contractual agreement to absolve the charges for several instances of running spire and unauthorized weaponry within Republic space. It was the first cataloged entry of her existence. 

The Republic was desperate as the war ran long and difficult, but he didn’t think they were so desperate to drag a known criminal from her cell and offer a full pardon in exchange for her services.

Sighing, he pushed those thoughts aside as well.

There were more pressing matters at hand. The mission was a bust. Bastila Shan, the most vital member of the Republic war effort was stranded on a planet crawling with Sith waiting for the chance to deliver her to their Sith Lord, Darth Malak. The Republic would be of no help at all. He was, until,  _ if _ , Miran regained consciousness, on his own.

It didn’t take long to organize his priorities. Keep Miran alive. Locate Bastila and hope like hell the Sith didn’t get to her first. Find a way off the planet. Worry about the details along the way.

It wasn’t much, but it was a start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not completely happy with this chapter, but I've already rewritten it twice and nope, not doing it again


	3. A Lapse in Memory

**CHAPTER 3 |** A Lapse in Memory

She couldn’t remember a damned thing.

In front of the grimy, cracked mirror situated above an equally disgusting sink in a refresher about as wide as she was tall, she pressed the heel of her palm into her forehead and released a frustrated sigh. In the ten minutes since she woke in the corner of the dismal apartment, which reeked of something long dead and decayed, she cycled through more emotions than she could name. Confusion and frustration remained a steady constant. It was beginning to drive her nuts.

The datapad found next to the pile of stained, moth-eaten blankets arranged in a makeshift bed contained a cargo load of useless data: meaningless number sequences, the layout of a ship she’d never seen before, and a manifest containing extensive information on three hundred people as unfamiliar as the reflection staring back at her. 

She was a woman, short of stature, with a rounded face covered in a galaxy’s worth of freckles, high cheekbones, and large, rounded eyes that presented the illusion of youth. Her nose turned slightly at the end, the bridge narrow but defined. The pale green of her irises seemed to glow beneath the artificial light. Tangled waves of ocean blue cascaded over her shoulders in a matted mess that stuck out at odd angles. In certain places, such as the tips of her ears, her skin exhibited a pale blue hue as opposed to the soft ivory everywhere else. A thick bandage covered her temple. She studied the features of her face, then the colorless images that accompanied each file in the manifest. She was halfway through the hundred-some-odd women listed with no success.

Just as she was beginning to question if she was even old enough to crew what appeared to be a Republic warship, an image near the bottom of the list caught her attention. The grainy, monotone color of the screen made them difficult to see, but when she brought the screen closer to her face, she saw the smattering of freckles - her most defining trait, hair color aside. The woman in question matched the uncertain age criteria as well.

_ Stars above _ , she thought.  _ Who forgets their own face? _

As with the other files, the contents of “hers” didn’t spark a sense of familiarity despite the matching image. She was, assuming the information was correct, a nefarious smuggler by the name of Miran Sol, who hailed from the remote world of Deralia, a planet located in the Tammuz Sector of the Outer Rim.

Age thirty-four.

Her gaze flickered between the datapad and the mirror. Thirty-four by whose standards, she wondered. She didn’t look a day over eighteen, maybe nineteen if she were generous.

With another frustrated sigh, she flung the datapad into the sink and ran a hand through her hair: thick, coarse, damp and matted with sweat. Her fingers caught on the knots of her errant waves, the tips brushing over a tender lump on the back of her head. At least two head wounds, absolutely no memory to speak of - she wasn’t even sure how she understood the sharp, angular text displayed on the datapad - and nothing she could do to rectify the situation.

She turned away from the mirror and entered the main room.

The dreary apartment showed signs of another inhabitant, the scattered wrappers of bandages and bloody cloths near her bed a clear indication someone tended her wounds before she woke. Another makeshift bed lay on the floor in the far corner near the window, which overlooked a sprawling cityscape of arched spires and winding translucent walkways. Men and women dressed in bright, extravagant clothes paraded past in large groups that tricked to steady streams. Soldiers in reflective armor and carrying a wide assortment of heavy weaponry marched through the streets, carelessly shoving civilians and shuffling droids aside.

One soldier slammed his shoulder into an elderly man and sent him tumbling over the edge of the walkway. The civilians did not react. They continued on if it were a normal occurrence. For all she knew, it was.

A horrendous screech suddenly filled the room. She spun on her heels, her head spinning with the movement, and watched as the entrance to the apartment slid open with the strained wilting of a dying motor. Her left hand moved of its own accord, her fingers podding at her hip for something that wasn’t there. She found a holster, the leather smooth and cool to the touch, and a hollow emptiness inside.

Why did she have a holster in the first place? Where was the weapon it carried?

A man, somewhere in his late thirties to early forties, dressed in what she assumed was some type of padded armor stepped through the door. He carried a gun - a blaster - in one hand and a box something - something that smelled absolutely delicious - in the other. Food.

“You’re-” his words stopped short as her stomach chose that moment to announce the emptiness inside. 

The barest hint of a smile, nearly lost beneath the days worth of beard surrounding his jaw, touched his lips. Her cheeks warmed.

“Actually,” he said, holding the box towards her, “you should probably eat first.”

Miran crossed the room in an instant and snatched the offered box from his hand before settling on one of the lopsided beds. She tore into the food, a strange dish of odd-colored vegetables and white, flaky meat with the grace of a starved animal. Either whoever made it was an excellent cook, or she was too hungry to care; within a minute she devoured the meal, shoveling every last morsel and crumb into her mouth.

“You’ve been in and out of consciousness for days,” he said. His voice, thick with an accent she couldn’t place, carried the slightest trace of hesitation. Caution. “It’s good to see you up instead of thrashing about in your sleep. I was beginning to think you wouldn’t wake up.”

“Where,” she started, then paused. Her voice sounded foreign to her own ears. “Where am I?”

“In an abandoned apartment on Taris,” he said as he stepped further into the room. “I’m Carth, a soldier from the  _ Endar Spire _ . I was with you in the escape pod when it crashed.”

Miran gave him a sideways glance as she licked the sauce from her fingers. That was the name of the ship in the manifest, but she still couldn’t remember why she’d been aboard. She certainly didn’t remember being in an escape pod.

“Not a clue what you’re talking about.”

Carth paused. His stance changed, rigid and guarded, his eyes narrowed. The hand carrying the blaster twitched.

She kept her eyes on the blaster, vaguely aware of an uncomfortable prickling along her skin. “All I know,” she said, slowly, “is there was something about a ship with the same name in the datapad by my bed and a picture of someone who I assume is me.”

He opened his mouth, as if to say something, but snapped it shut a moment later.

Disbelief. Wariness. Beneath that, genuine concern. Again, she felt the prickling along her skin.

“That...that smack to your head did more damage than I thought,” he muttered.

That was an understatement if she ever heard one. Her head ached, the dull throbbing in her temple a constant nuisance that began before she opened her eyes and grew stronger the more she prodded at the hollow void in her mind. It was an emptiness that shouldn’t exist - unnatural and unnerving.

It was not the work of a head injury.

A blinding burst of pain erupted behind her forehead. She felt the bed tilt beneath her, a strange kneeing ringing in her ears. Tears burned her eyes.

_ A dark ship. The blurry face of a young woman. A flash of yellow. Distant explosions. Someone screaming... _

The sounds and images, scattered, hazy fragments that lingered for but a second, fleeting, despite the agony behind her eyes. It felt as if her mind were tearing itself apart. A spike burying itself in her skull. She couldn’t breathe.

A pair of hands on her shoulders brought her crashing back to reality. She released a shuddering breath, blinking away the tears. The pain receded, the dull ache behind her temple remaining. 

“I think it’d be best to hold off the explanations until you’ve seen a doctor,” Carth said, concern coloring his voice. 

“Then why wasn’t I taken to one sooner?” she asked. She swallowed and took another deep breath.

“Trust me, if it were safe, you’d have been in the clinic the second you were out of that pod. But now that you’re awake-”

“No,” she said, fighting off a sudden wave of nausea. “If I’m awake, I’ll be fine. You said I was out for a couple of days. If something was going to happen, it’d have already happened.”

“That doesn’t necessarily mean you’re in the clear,” he countered. There was a note of authority in his voice as he pulled her to her feet. “Whether you remember or not, you are a Republic soldier and I outrank you. It wasn’t a suggestion.”

“No offense, or anything, but just because there’s a lapse in my memory doesn’t mean I’m going to take your word for it,” she countered. “Not when I have no way of knowing what’s true and what isn’t.”

“You think I’d lie to you?”

“I don’t know you,” she said. “And I’m not leaving this apartment until I know why and how I ended up here.”

Carth sighed and ran his hand through his hair. Miran noted the subtle signs of frustration; the tension in his jaw and the rigidity of his stance. 

"I don't know why, but you signed on with the Republic fleet for a relief mission led by Bastila," he said at length. "As soon as we emerged from hyperspace, the Sith ambushed us. You and I barely made it out alive."

Miran pursed her lips. The name Bastila sparked a sense of familiarity, and if she concentrated, the hazy image of a woman's face appeared in her mind. Beyond it, nothing.

"Why the ambush?"

"Bastila's a Jedi. She’s the one who killed…" he paused, shaking his head, and continued, “I’ll spare you the details for now, but she’s the key to the Republic war effort. The Sith must have found out she was aboard the  _ Spire _ and set a trap?”

"And what does that have to do with me?”

“I don’t think you realize the situation we’re in,” Carth said. He motioned to the window, to the armored soldiers patrolling the walkways. “We can’t stay on this planet forever. Eventually, the Sith will find us and trust me, you don’t want that.”

Miran pinched the bridge of her nose and released a long-suffering sigh. “Let me guess, you’re about to suggest we find Barbra-”

“Bastila.”

“Whatever. 

“The whole planet’s under quarantine. No ships can land or take-off,” he said. “If she’s going to escape, she’s going to need our help and we’ll probably need hers.”

She wished she hadn’t woken up. Miran knew, in name, the factions mentioned. The Republic endeavored to save the galaxy while the Sith sought to destroy it. One was good, the other bad. They were at war - a war she evidently chose to take part in.

“Fine, you’ve made your point. I’ll help you find Barbra.”

Miran slipped off the bed and tossed the empty box in the pile of wrappers near her bed as she moved towards the refresher. “After I take a shower.”

…

If not for view from the apartment, she’d have thought Carth dragged her into the slums.

The long, circular hall beyond their temporary safe haven bore the same signs of neglect, though there had been an obvious effort to maintain some semblance of propriety. All manner of poorly concealed vandalism covers the walls and, alarmingly, she understood most of it - names, witty phrases, and obscene words scrawled across the paneling in what appeared to be several different languages. A smaller, narrower hall branched off from the main corridor and led to the translucent walkway visible from the apartment window. From the entrance, she saw the twisted remains of an escape pod surrounded by a gaggle of scavenger droids.

Much like a partially restored painting, Taris was a surreal combination of old and new. Massive, flat spires of durasteel and glass rose high into the sky, the blunted tops flowing beneath the radiance of the afternoon sun. Raised beds lined with artificial plants, so vivid they appeared real at first glance, divided the walkway into two sections. Small, ornamental trees provided a hint of shade along the otherwise uncovered thoroughfare and the bright, vibrant flowers offset the faded blue and maroon prevalent among the structures. 

Taris had a history. She saw it in the faded remnants of ornate glass doors, in the intricate but elegant patterns in the panels along the walkway. It showed in its citizens, the excessive hairstyles, glittering jewelry, and extravagant clothes that conflicted with the crumbling city - as if they were still clinging to the past. 

Evidence of an attempt to restore the city to its former glory presented itself at every turn, the cosmetic touches of the artificial gardens and restoration efforts displayed on many buildings, but it was half-hearted at best. Taris’s heyday had long passed. All that remained was an empty shell fading into obscurity.

“What’s this place like?” she asked. 

“A cesspool,” Carth said with disgust. “Taris used to be something, one of the most important planets in this sector, until better trade routes popped up. Since then, it’s degraded into a pit of a world. The rich spoil themselves while the poor rot in the lower level.”

“I don’t think they got the memo,” she muttered. She scrunched her nose in distaste as one woman strode past in a glaring yellow dress, her nose chin hefted and shoulders squared with conceit “You’d think with all their money, they could at least afford to dress with style. Looking at them makes my head hurt.”

“Gaudy is the style. They’re rich and they want everyone to know it.”

Silence settled between them as they continued on. The general bustle of the city did nothing for her headache; the drone of the distant speeders settled in her ears like the buzzing of an insect. More than one passing citizen met her gaze with a look of abject disgust and a sneer, a sentiment they didn’t pass on to her company. 

"I hope you have an idea of where to look, otherwise it'll take years to search the whole damn planet," Miran grumbled.

"The Undercity, if we can find a way down. There's supposed to be an elevator in this sector, but I haven't found it yet."

An hour later, after their search proved fruitless results (and Carth's further attempts to convince her to see a doctor fell on deaf ears), they returned to the apartment building just as a man in a dull grey uniform, armed with a rifle and flanked by two battle droids, slipped inside. Beside her, Carth cursed. 

"Another patrol," he muttered.

"Go find somewhere to lay low for a bit," Miran muttered. "I'll get back in and toss the datapad just in case they-"

"Are you insane? They-"

"If the prejudice here is as bad as you say it is," she said and jerked her towards the remains of their escape pod perched precariously on the edge of the walkway, "they're not going to care if I'm there, but a human in a building full of aliens won’t look good. And we'll be good and kriffed if they get their hands on the datapad."

She could see the gears tuning in his head as he stood there in silent debate. A moment later, after coming to an apparent decision, he sighed and said, “You might be right. I still don’t like the idea.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t like this whole situation but that doesn’t make a damn bit of difference,” she clipped. “Find a cantina or something. I’ll come find you when the coast is clear.”

With that, she turned on her heels, squared her shoulders, and sauntered into the building as if she owned it. The Sith and his droids hadn’t gone far; they stood just before the first door on the right, a pair of pale blue-skinned aliens cornered against the outer wall. Miran ducked her head and hurried to the left, around the curve in the corridor, and stopped in front of the apartment door. She reached for the access panel and keyed in the code.

The moment the door began to open, she cursed; she’d forgotten about the noise. 

Once the gap between the two panels was large enough, she squeezed through and bolted into the refresher. She snatched the datapad from the skin and, after a moment of panic, shoved it down the front of her shirt. The Sith likely heard the noise and, if they were smart, they’d be on their way to investigate - there wasn’t enough time to wrestle the window open without seeming suspicions.

No sooner than she zipped the front of her jacket, the Sith entered the room. The droid’s immediately targeted her with their blasters, their cold and unwelcoming exteriors gleaming in the afternoon sun spilling through the open blinds. The Sith regarded her with a mixture of disgust and suspicion.

"Stars above," she groaned, throwing her hands up in exasperation, "I can't even take a shit on this rock without being held at gun-point."

"Back against the wall," the Sith ordered.

She stepped back, scowling, and the droids followed. The foot of the one on her right caught the overstuffed pack next to her bed, knocking it on its side. A sense of deja vu washed over her as a long, cylindrical object rolled to a stop at her feet.

Something snapped within her.

Like the shifting of a lense, her surroundings came into sharp focus. She felt a stirring in the air around the droids, an inexplicable oscillation of energy, and the confusion of the Sith. There was a tug deep in her core and her hand moved of its own accord, stretched before her.

She couldn't say what happened next.

The object - the lightsaber - flew into her hand as if propelled by some unseen force. She dropped, three super-charged plasma bolts sailing over her head, and swept her leg at the man's feet. He stumbled but remained on his feet.

Miran's thumb found the activation switch and the lightsaber flared to life. Guided by instinct and muscle memory, adrenaline singing in her veins, she dispatched one droid with a wide, arcing swing. The second fell to a flurry of blows, its arms tumbling to the floor as its torso slid off its now-severed legs. With the ease of a trained combatant, she spun the hilt of the lightsaber in her hands and thrust backward.

She heard more than felt the blade sink into the chest of the Sith. The blaster tumbled from his hand, landing on the floor beside the remains of his droid with a dull clatter. Seconds later, he crumbled.

Panting, Miran deactivated the blade and turned the hilt over in her hand. Her head spun as she tried to make sense of what she'd done. She'd been trained in combat, seemingly with that weapon; it felt natural in her grip, where the blasters at her hip felt awkward and clunky.

She turned towards the refresher, her gaze finding her distorted reflection in the mirror. Dread pitted in her stomach as the realization struck her with the subtlety of a proton missile. Something was very, very wrong about her situation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't like this chapter for the simple fact that I had it written weeks in advance, started editing it, and decided to rewrite the entire thing twice because I'm never satisfied with anything - and combat scenes are the bane of my existence (if it wasn't obvious by trying to avoid as many as possible in the first chapter, oops). 
> 
> I don't know why, but Taris always gave me the impression of like a city that was built to reflect an excess of wealth and prosperity that's spiraled into a dismal state of disrepair that keeps trying to come back but just can't seem to get there, as well as one similar to an illusion; it's not at all what it seems. 
> 
> On another note, just a quick thank you to everyone who's read, bookmarked, and/or left kudos. It's been a while since I've posted anything anywhere online so the feedback and any future feedback is greatly appreciated.


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